Review by Jonathan Wilkins of "Salt & Stone" ed. Adriana Ciontea, Maella Cottin and Sam Stone

This is a collection of emotive short stories by Cornish writers. Salt & Stone is a beautifully textured anthology that masterfully captures the rugged, dualistic spirit of Cornwall. This striking compilation explores the profound tension between the region’s shifting maritime elements, salt, and its immovable, ancient heritage, stone. It is a perfect evocation of Cornwall and its magical, mystery world that has been woven into contemporary Cornish life. We see how Cornwall breathes. We see the intoxicating beauty of the coastline and inland, working men and women at sea and at leisure, newcomers and residents who have endured over time.

Salt & Stone flourishes with its vivid description of place. This is all important and is pre-eminent in all the stories. All the writers examine the daily realities of Cornwall’s landscape and history. The "salt" of the collection is real and we can almost taste the invigorating Atlantic winds and rain as they drench the earth; we live amongst the fishing communities, and can imagine through the writer’s creative process the exhilarating beauty of the shoreline. In contrast, the "stone" elements anchor the book in Cornwall’s granite permanence, exploring the enduring legacy of old tin mine workings, megaliths, and the deep-rooted identity of the people who work the land.

What makes Salt & Stone particularly compelling is its stylistic diversity. Seamlessly transitioning between contemporary realism and folklore-infused lyrical prose, the collection ensures that every turn of the page offers a new perspective on Cornish life. The anthology excels at capturing subtle nuances, the balance between traditional heritage and modern regional challenges, the power of the landscape, the charm of the villages, all making it a deeply resonant read for both locals and outsiders.

I adored the way in "Lamorna Glass," I was drawn into the writer's world immediately and with such ease. The prose is perfect, seamlessly inviting us to take part. "Saltwater Grounding" is beautifully written: so sad yet eventually with a renewed purpose, we meet a recent widow reflecting on her life. "The Shifting of the Bar" begins with an expressive description of the local pub before delving into the mystical world Cornwall is famed for. This is an excellent modern-day fairy-tale in every sense.

It was a shame that some of the sublimely written passages were rather shorter than one would have hoped, leaving the reader wanting more. But maybe that is a good thing; we can search for these writers' other works online or at the library. Salt & Stone is a poignant, sensory tribute to Cornwall. It is a highly recommended read for anyone wishing to experience the true, unyielding pulse of the austere southwestern coast and the exhilarating inland scenery through the authentic voices who know it best. 

When you next visit, take it with you.

About the reviewer
Jonathan Wilkins is 69. He is married to the gorgeous Annie with two wonderful sons. He was a teacher for twenty years, a Waterstones’ bookseller and coached women’s basketball for over thirty years before taking up writing seriously. Nowadays he takes notes for students with Special Needs at Leicester and Warwick Universities. He has had a work commissioned by the UK Arts Council and several pieces published traditionally as well as on-line. He has had poems in magazines and anthologies, art galleries, studios, museums and at Huddersfield Railway Station. He loves writing poetry. For his MA, he wrote a crime novel, Utrecht Snow. He followed it up with Utrecht Rain, and is now writing a third part. He is currently writing a crime series, Poppy Knows Best, set at the end of the Great War and into the early 1920s.

Review by Aswathy Raveendran of "Sisters of the Pentacle" by Paul Taylor-McCartney

Paul Taylor-McCartney’s Sisters of the Pentacle is the first book of The Broken Pentacle Series, and is a fascinating tale that mixes historical drama, witchcraft, time travel, and the quiet power of sisterhood. Set across three very different time periods in the same corner of Wales, the novel follows three young women who are bound by magic, prophecy, and a sacred but damaged pentacle. It’s the kind of book that rewards patient readers. It is layered, atmospheric, and full of heart. Fans of thoughtful fantasy with real historical grounding will likely find themselves pulled in.

The story shifts between 1650, 1900, and 2080, each period anchored by a compelling young witch. In the plague year of 1650, we meet Mary Harries, a twelve-year-old "Knowing One" with the gift of foresight. Tenby is locked down, bodies pile up, and suspicion falls hard on anyone suspected of witchcraft. Mary’s courage, as she helps with the dead, faces angry mobs, and confronts dark forces on Caldey Island, gives the opening section a raw, visceral edge. Her protective grandmother Nancy and a shape-shifting boy named Abe add warmth and danger in equal measure.

Jump forward to 1900, and we’re with Harriet Gordon, a sharp-witted artist living in St Catherine’s Fort. Harriet chafes against her family’s expectations and her brothers’ cruelty. Her discovery of latent powers, helped along by a mysterious ceremonial blade (an athame) and a voice from the future, brings both wonder and trouble. The inclusion of real historical figures like Winston Churchill and H. G. Wells during a dinner party is a clever touch, and it nicely highlights the tension between Harriet’s inner world and the respectable society closing in around her.

In 2080, Indigo Carmichael takes centre stage. Living in a world scarred by environmental collapse, she’s the daughter of a driven scientist whose time-acceleration technology holds both salvation and peril. Indigo’s sections feel more dystopian and introspective, tying the historical threads together through risky experiments and a desperate hope of mending what’s broken across time.

What holds these timelines together is Taylor-McCartney’s clever use of recurring symbols like the circles of power, glowing portals, animal transformations, and fragments of the pentacle itself. The non-linear structure mirrors the book’s central idea which is all about how the history isn’t a straight line but a looping, interconnected web. Some transitions in the story are seamless and some lean a bit heavily on exposition or convenient coincidences. Still, the overall effect is one of building momentum toward something larger.

Thematically, the novel has real weight. The sisterhood depicted in the story goes beyond blood. It’s about shared resilience, passed-down knowledge, and collective resistance against oppression. Each girl pushes back against the constraints of her time period. If it was persecution and plague for Mary, it was rigid Edwardian gender roles for Harriet, and technological hubris for Indigo. Taylor-McCartney handles the "grey area" of magic thoughtfully, refusing to paint it as purely good or evil. There are strong undercurrents about environmental responsibility, the cost of playing with time, and the long shadow of patriarchy. The pentacle becomes a potent symbol of wholeness in a fractured world, and the respect shown to real witchcraft traditions feels genuine rather than superficial.

The three protagonists are the novel’s greatest strength. Mary’s quiet bravery amid horror is moving. Harriet’s artistic eye and dry humour bring welcome lightness and emotional texture. Indigo, dealing with her own physical limitations and inherited burdens, adds a layer of vulnerability that makes her future feel lived in and urgent. Supporting characters like Nancy, Abe, and even the antagonistic Gordon brothers mostly ring true, though a few (particularly in the future sections) lean toward archetype. The historical cameos work better than they have any right to, adding flavour without derailing the story.

Taylor-McCartney’s prose shines when he leans into atmosphere. The plague-stricken streets of Tenby, the misty cliffs at Harrowing Point, and the sterile glow of futuristic labs all come alive. There are lyrical moments during rituals and invocations that genuinely feel magical. That said, some dialogue runs a touch expository, and a few descriptive passages could have been trimmed. Even though there are few quibbles like these, the book overall gives you an immersive reading experience.

Overall, Sisters of the Pentacle is a success. Its world-building across centuries is impressive, and the emotional core which centres around the bond between the "sisters" across time is something that would stay with you. Pacing occasionally lags, especially when lore or technology needs explaining, and the 2080 storyline feels slightly less developed than the historical ones. But these are the growing pains of an ambitious first volume in what promises to be a rich series.

If you enjoy fantasy that takes its time, respects its traditions, and weaves real history with the supernatural, this one is worth your attention. It’s a story about healing what’s broken across time, across families, and across the land itself. I closed the book eager to see where the pentacle leads next.

About the reviewer
Dr. Aswathy Raveendran is an Assistant Professor of English at Jain (Deemed-to-be University), Kochi, India. Her research focuses on twentieth-century female gothic literature, with broader interests in sensory studies, eco-gothic narratives, and cultural memory. She is also a practising artist whose work explores themes of nature, memory, and the sensory imagination.

You can read more about Sisters of the Pentacle by Paul Taylor-McCartney on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Colin Dardis of "Murmurations" by Clare Dwyer

The poems in Murmurations are culled from a notebook that Dwyer kept during the pandemic, written across each wave of the Coronavirus pandemic as they hit England. Forced to shield during each lockdown, cut off from the the normalities of children, grandchildren and life beyond her house, Dwyer turned to other areas of focus to dwell upon. There are three main themes at play throughout the collection: the comfort immediately found in her own garden; the wonders of space; and the sense of family, keenly missed throughout each wave. These three themes in themselves may not seem like natural bedfellows, but Dwyer balances her attention skilfully across them.

It is perhaps in the poems of the garden and of nature that Murmurations succeeds the most: not like the keen botanical slant of Michael Longley or Jean Bleakney perhaps, but more the sheer awe and childlike fascination closer to that of Mary Oliver. In the opening poem, 'Solace of a Small Bird: Wren,' the observer marks the passage of the day by the comings and goings of the bird:

           I count each one and smile,
           it is enough,
           despite these tremors
           which shake the world

This sets the mood for the book: to find solace, comfort and even entertainment in what we already have at our possession, when shut off from the rest of the world. Tickseed, acorns, birds, fern, crane flies and more are all part of Dwyer's line-up, with delight found in each.

Dwyer also takes us outside of Earth, to imagine scenes set in the allure of deep space, with reflection on meteor showers and the Hubble telescope. 'Last Letter from Mars' gives voice to the Mars Rover, close to the end of its mission: 'I am tired, my battery is low, | A storm is coming.' Here is a hint of death, and with so much of it ubiquitous on Earth, even Mars can't escape a death of sorts. Elsewhere, Dwyer conjures up the image of 'this small blue planet | caught safe within the Heliosphere' ('Star Map'), and one can't help but think that in the middle of a persistent pandemic, the use of the word 'safe' can only be ironic.

The opening of the poem 'mineshelf' neatly manages to weave the subjects of family and space together, giving a new twist to a common image seen in space exploration:

          That moment, when the module
          separates from the mothership,
          embarks on its own journey
          is akin to that moment
          when a child
          has self-recognition

Dwyer has moments of such Brautigan-esque inventiveness dotted through the book: people who 'fossilise at an early age,' the fall of post through a letterbox like 'a rapid flutter ... of sparrows,' crows picking moss off a roof to line their nests with, and using their feathers as payment. At times, however, there is an over-reliance on abstractions: the vision of meteors filled the observer with 'awe and delight,' a person and their dog return home from a walk 'curiously satisfied'; there is the insomniac's plea for sleep to 'catch my soul.'

None of these abstractions let the reader into what the speaker is really feeling, which is a shame, as Dwyer does display the ability to evoke empathy and affinity elsewhere. 'To the Other Side of Truro' charts the local landscape seen on a journey to visit family, beholding a sequence of natural marvels; and yet, when the destination is reached, granddaughters run outside in greeting 'and still, | we cannot hold each other.' The absence of a daughter is felt as 'a hard knot of loss | behind by breastbone.' Seasons change, yet Dwyer feels as if she is 'caught in amber,' absurdly preserved through the inertia of lockdowns.

 All of this takes the reader back to their own sense of longing and isolation felt through lockdown, being cut off from loved ones, and the key poem of the collection, 'The Wood-wide Web.' There is little direct address to the pandemic within Murmurations; in fact, the first mention of the C-word, 'Covid,' isn't until over thirty poems deep. But here, we see the tying together of family, togetherness distance and the impact of the pandemic in one clever extended metaphor:

           Across the woodland
           deep underground
           mycelium in intricate webs
           gossip to the trees,
           who is sick,
           who is threatened.
           The trees take care
           of their vulnerable.

Within the realm of post-pandemic literature, there is this awareness of the need for others, but there is also anger. In 'Reading Home,' there is mention of 'countless deaths | and the fall of Troy.' It doesn't take a great leap of imagination and reinvention to see 'Troy' as 'Tory.' 'A Murder of Crows' (again, the hint of death found in the collective noun) gleefully wishes for the downfall of Boris Johnson. The sense of anger though is subtle, not overwrought, and Dwyer does well not to let it distract from her main themes.

In 'Skeins,' a shrewdly constructed poem of overlapping sentences, we find the clash of escapism (the comforts of nature and family, the gazing into space) with reality: people in body-bags, overworked nurses, grief. It's a good exhibition piece for the whole of the book. Dwyer may not always push and stretch language as much as other poets, but she is comfortable in letting the subject matter speak for itself, to be that mirror held up to the world, which we all need while still reeling from the impact of Covid. And despite the lingering sense of death, there is much warmth in these poems.

About the Reviewer
Colin Dardis is a neurodivergent writer, editor and sound artist from Northern Ireland. His most recent book is Apocrypha: Collected Early Poems (Cyberwit, 2022). His work, largely influenced by his experiences with depression and Asperger's, has been published widely throughout Ireland, the UK and USA. 

You can read more about Murmurations by Clare Dwyer on Creative Writing at Leicester here.